in which buffy the vampire slayer makes dwight cry
by biggrstaffbunch
Summary: Pam and Jim understand each other a little better, these days. Sometimes Pam thinks it's all because of Dwight. And that's a scary thought. JimPam, JimDwightPam friendship. [spoilers up to 4x04, Money]


----

Since Jim had that talk with Dwight, you think things can't be good, but they have to be better.

You think this because Dwight doesn't stick his head under his desk and cry anymore, and there aren't any odd sounds coming from the men's bathroom, either. And even though Dwight still treats Andy like a bug on the bottom of his shoe, it's okay because really, Dwight treats everyone like that. There's still the occasional acidic glance whenever Angela does her weird stiff-flirty thing over the cat Andy gave her, but other than that, Dwight seems to be ignoring the fact that he ever had his heart broken at all.

Which is good. And you're glad. Everyone deserves to be happy. Even Dwight. No, you think resolutely, _especially_ Dwight!

It's weird that Dwight was ever lovelorn over a woman in the first place, yet--and you don't tell anyone this because you're pretty sure it's really, _really_ embarrassing--it's weirder how upset it made _you_ to see him like that.

From the first day you figured out he and Angela were ducking behind buildings to hide their strange, strangely-_perfect_ relationship, Dwight stopped being the annoying, overbearing, very neurotic third-in-command. Okay, he didn't actually stop being all those things, but--you stopped seeing him as _only_ that. Dwight formed layers. Dwight was in love. And it was sort of awesome.

It...gave you hope, in a way, when not a lot else did. And then Angela dumped him. You don't know the story behind that one, but you're almost positive it had something to do with a cat, the Bible, or Dwight's unhealthy love of Michael Scott. No matter what, though, you're sure it wasn't enough to warrant putting that _look_ on his face...

Bottom line is, someone like Dwight shouldn't ever be too sad to celebrate a sales victory over a computer that's inexplicably become sentient and all-knowing. It's just not _right_.

Over pizza and Dr. Pepper on the roof of Dunder Mifflin, Jim asked you why you cared so much. You didn't answer because you weren't quite sure what to say, but...it's like this: sometimes you think back to the time when you were drowning in all that before-Jim-was-your-boyfriend angst and Dwight bobbed in like an awful, wonderful little buoy, and he patted your back and tried his own awful, wonderful methods to make you feel better and it was still horrible but in a small, totally meaningful way, it _wasn't_.

It wasn't horrible, that one second of crying into your hands in an empty hallway while Dwight--_Dwight_, of all people--comforted you.

You decide privately that this is probably where all the goodwill is coming from.

Anything else, like the fact that you might actually _like_ Dwight--as a person, a real person who doesn't get faxes from the receptionist and believe they're from the CIA, who doesn't keep a bobblehead of himself on his desk, a real, _actual_ person--

Well. It's just too strange to consider.

---

"So..."

As conversation-starters go, it's a little lame, because maybe you have a backbone now but you're still kind of used to Jim Halpert: _the unrequited love_, so Jim Halpert: _the boyfriend_ is new enough that you turn into Ms. Awkward Pause around him sometimes. But it's okay; with Jim of any kind, the conversation makes itself, and hey--he's sort of Mister Awkward Pause by default now, isn't he?

You think he'd probably like that. If you ever told him. Which you won't. Because girlfriend or not, sometimes inner monologues are inner for a reason. This you know as fact.

"So," Jim echoes, and his hand reaches down to casually entwine with yours. You're sitting on the couch, back against Jim's chest, and you're cozy, all curled up next to the guy you've wanted for pretty much...ever. His breath is warm against your neck, and you're warm in a different way because you just spent an hour making out with him on the overstuffed loveseat while Conan blared in the background. It's nice, this little slice of domesticity, in a way you're sure being with Roy never was or could have been. (Also, you're eating a lot more Italian food lately.)

And you hate that somewhere on a beet farm, Dwight is either reading Mose into frightened hysterics or baying at the moon.

Dwight's relapsed, is the problem. This morning, Andy finally got Angela to go on an actual, public date with him. Dwight made it through the first ten minutes of Andy's elaborately-planned request for her hand, and then he got up and hurled the stereo (which was still blaring Cutting Crew at frankly innappropriate volumes) out the window. The rest of the day was spent with you and Jim alternating shifts by the door to the side stairwell, listening for the sound of Dwight unceremoniously throwing himself down the steps.

Currently, the lights are low in Jim's apartment and the music is inspired. Normally you'd feel nervous anticipation about that--mood lighting and Barry in the cd-player, though it's Copacabana and not Let's Get Busy--but you're too busy worrying about Dwight. Again.

"Jim?" you ask, tilting your chin to look up at him. "Do you think it's dumb to think we should do something for Dwight?"

Jim's eyes are dark and kind in the shadows. "I think," he says slowly, "That you're pretty incredible for thinking about it at all."

"Incredible in a creepy way?" you ask hesitantly, trying not to look like too much hinges on his answer.

Jim breathes out a chuckle, brushing his lips across your hairline. "Oh, only in a creepy way that's totally endearing, Beesley," he confirms.

You grin in response, unable to stop yourself from giving him a kiss (and lamely loving that little thrill at how you're allowed to do that now) before settling back against his chest.

"Okay," you say satisfiedly, "That's good then."

---

It's Jim's idea to invite Dwight over for a television marathon.

Jim phrases it differently, of course. He calls it an opportunity to enlighten him to Dwight's supposedly superior tastes. "Bring over your all-time favorite show," Jim suggests. "Convince me of the cool." Dwight gives Jim a suspicious, wary look and asks which genres are off-limits. Jim spreads his hands out in resignation and says, "None, Dwight. That's the beauty of this thing--it's like I'm contractually bound to watch _anything_."

The glee in Dwight's eyes momentarily shines back to life, and for that, you think it's almost worth it that he makes Jim sign an actual contract.

Jim gives the camera a wide-eyed, blank stare when Dwight finally agrees, but you catch the secret grins that flicker across both their faces when the cameras swing away, and it makes you feel sort of bubbly with affection. Like a really fond soda.

"Strictly for male-bonding purposes," Jim answers easily, when you ask him why he agreed to--even suggested--basically three hours of sci-fi mayhem by way of Battlestar Galactica. "Now, I wouldn't expect you to understand, little lady," and he slings his arm around your shoulders, "But something about laser-guns and explosions in the middle of space just..._speaks_ to the truly masculine heart. Epic battles between alien races make everything around here--" he gestures vaguely to his chest, "--that much better."

You give him a dubious look. "Bet all the females in spandex help," you say. Jim's arm tightens around your shoulders and you duck your head against the crook of his neck, and somehow you know the both of you are hiding stupid grins.

"Only the _hot_ females in spandex," he says sagely, and you decide that's fine. You'd probably take a crack at Deanna Troi, given the chance. If _Star Trek_ was at all real. And you were a lesbian. (Which, and you're sort of baffled at why you have to keep clarifying this to the documentary crew, you're _not_.)

You're about to tell Jim this, just to see what his expression will be, when he says in a way-too-casual voice, "So, I was thinking we could do this thing at your place. Maybe. If you want."

You pull back and give him a speculative look. "What happened to male bonding?" you ask. "Space and explosions and stuff only the truly masculine heart could understand?"

Jim sighs. "Well, behind every great man is a really good woman. And there are sparkly spaceships for you to look at." His eyes twinkle. "Besides, your television is way bigger."

You bite your lip and pretend to think it over. "Fine," you concede. "But bring popcorn."

Jim nods solemnly, and when you drop him off, you give him a wave and tell him you'll see him soon. He beams a grin back, and as you drive away, you can't help but think of how this is a big step. Over the summer, there was a lot of casual hanging out between you and Jim, and maybe some necking on the couch, but nothing official. He's never been there like he had a _right_ to be there. An entitlement. Like a boyfriend.

And now he will be. Because of _Dwight_.

"Huh," you muse, and that's pretty much that for a very long while.

---

Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You can't help the surprise that shoots through you when you glimpse the DVDs in Dwight's hand.

"But..._I_ watch that show," you say, stunned. Jim, in the background, stops shaking the popcorn bag.

"Then you have shockingly adequate taste, Pam," Dwight retorts, peering past your shoulder. "Halpert?" He waves his DVDs. "Prepare to be convinced."

"Hey, Dwight," Jim greets, coming up behind you. The popcorn smell, buttery and delicious, permeates the air and Dwight sniffs curiously. He gives the popcorn bag a hungry look, and Jim looks down, then looks at him. "Here ya go, buddy," he offers cautiously, flashing a quick, rueful smile at you. In a situation like Dwight's, heartache trumps hunger. _Your_ hunger that is. And since you and Jim are in a way better place emotionally...feeding Dwight, it is.

Dwight snatches the bag from Jim and strides into your living room, casting his eyes around critically.

"Second-rate architecture, but a vibrant sense of color. Interesting juxtaposition of lace and mahogany with the doilies in your china cabinet." He gives a short nod. "Acceptable. Now come on, we've got three seasons of vampire-slaying, monster-killing, sword-striking heroicism to slog through. Buffy isn't getting any less dead the longer you two dawdle."

"Three seasons? Really?" Jim asks, at the same time you ask, "Oh! Which seasons?"

Dwight finds the living room with disturbing ease, flashing the DVD cases. "Seasons two, five, and six. It fits my viewing mood. Don't question my choices, Pam." He gives you a twitchy, pleading sort of look and you rub your arm. You can feel Jim's questioning gaze as Dwight leans forward and fiddles with your DVD player.

"Buffy kills her boyfriend at the end of season two, she dies at the end of season five, and she's sucked out of Heaven in season six," you tell Jim. Jim's eyebrows climb to new heights and you both turn to look at Dwight. "He must be _really_ depressed."

"Yeah," Jim says, looking troubled. "Yeah, he must be." Jim's hand squeezes yours for a moment and then he bounds forward, sitting on the couch next to Dwight, jiggling his knees enthusastically, a smile pasted across his face. The soda is back, warmth fizzing inside you as you circle the couch and sit on the other side of Dwight.

"Dwight?" you ask softly, because you notice that he stiffened up as soon as you sat down. "So, why'd you choose Buffy instead of--"

"Battlestar?" Dwight interrupts. "While Galactica is a clever social commentary, Buffy speaks to the heart in a way Gaius Baltar cannot. Because when it comes to comparing metaphors, love as Hell _always_ wins when compared to Cylons as Nazi-like beings bent on solving the _quote_-human equation-_unquote_." He turns back to the television, his fingers still in that weird 'quote-unquote' position.

"Okay," Jim says after a long moment. "Great." The theme song begins and slowly, gently, you and Jim lower Dwight's tense, crooked fingers to his lap.

---

"That episode as an introduction to the one great epic love of Buffy Summers, teen slayer?" Jim begins, a heavy hour later, "Was probably not the best choice." His eyes are dumbstruck and disbelieving, and he has this adorable furrow of confusion right under the flippy ends of his hair up front.

"I disagree, Jim," Dwight says stiffly. He is sprawled back on the couch; somewhere over the course of the episode, Dwight kept sinking farther and farther into the cushions, and now he's spread-eagled, his long legs sticking out awkwardly in front of him, his head lolling listlessly to the side.

"Oh, yeah, Dwight?" Jim asks indulgently, leaning back a little, too. His arm is draped across the back of the couch, fingers loosely linked with yours. "Why's that?"

Dwight clenches his fist. "Because 'Surprise' is an episode where the heroine bares her heart and body to her lover and consequently turns him into a soulless monster who is indifferent to her yearning, her desperate attempts at reconciliation. It's sick what relationships do to a person." His eyes are watery behind his glasses, and you shift uncomfortably.

"Not always," you say softly. "Sometimes it turns out like 'I Will Remember You.'" Dwight's eyes slant to meet yours and his fist relaxes, fingers drumming against his thigh.

"They had to turn back the clock. It was like that day never existed," he mumbles, miserable. "You're very bad at cheering me up, Pam."

You put your other hand on top Dwight's restless fingers. "The point is that it _happened_, Dwight," you say earnestly. "And just because there was pain and sadness and a lot of wishing they had all that wasted time back afterwards, it would have just been stupid and empty and _meaningless_ if it hadn't happened in the first place."

You blink, and for a second, you're seeing Jim kissing you in the dark and the tears streaking his face a terrible, shiny silver, and the torn up wedding invitations, and an empty desk and then _Karen_ and _Roy_ and a beach where words poured from your mouth like a river and now--

Jim's fingers tighten around yours and you open your eyes, fiercely glad for this moment, even with all the things that had to come before it.

"Hey," Jim says gently, "I, for one, _sort_ of want to see some more of this doomed love story. Next episode?"

Dwight grabs the remote. "I knew you'd be a Bangel supporter," he grumbles. "A treacley and uninspired match." He sniffs. "Signature Halpert. I supported the Spuffy movement, and with good reason. Spike was the epitome of a once-mighty lion brought to fall by love's evil sway."

You raise your eyebrows at this, and on the other side of the couch, Jim grins and mouths 'Spuffy' at you. "I liked Spike," you offer, "But I kind of thought Buffy and Angel were meant to be."

"Well," he says grimly, selecting 'Passions' with a relish that makes you wince, "We'll see about that."

---

It's well past midnight by the time Dwight has given you and Jim a crash course in the Buffy and Angel trainwreck o' love and-- oh. Crash course, trainwreck. You'll have to tell Jim that--

A snore cuts through your thoughts and your eyelids snap open, the blue glare of an idle DVD screen casting an eerie glow over Dwight's sleeping face. His mouth is open as he breathes noisily in and out, and a little bit of drool lines the edge of his lips. You shake your head groggily. Dwight is having a sleepover at your house. Jim won't ever stop laughing when he finds out--

Jim. That's right. Jim's here, too. This is the second time in a week you and he are having a sleepover in a place where Dwight is in the near vicinity. This thought should disturb you, but it's oddly comforting. _That_ disturbs you. You peek over Dwight's rising chest after a moment.

He is staring at you, his expression patiently amused. You smile, the tenseness in your muscles easing. "Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he whispers back. He motions to the door and you nod, carefully getting up so as not to disturb the sleeping Schrute. The air outside is crisp, the encroaching fall letting its presence be known in Lackawanna County. It'll be nice to paint the colors this autumn, you think. Last year, you were too occupied to really enjoy the leaves turning, but now...

Jim's arms wrap around you, and the hollow punch of his heartbeat against your ear makes you close your eyes involuntarily. "Before? I made a funny pun in my head," you murmer, your fingers in your sleeves and your sleeves resting on top of Jim's folded hands, snug around your middle.

"Is that right?" he asks, his chin resting against your crown. "Punning Pam Beesley. The punmeister. Good for you."

"Thanks," you say, around a yawn. "Sorry. Long day." It really was; Fridays are always crazy at the office. (Fridays are when Michael usually brainstorms his wackier ideas, and you're always stuck taking notes on things like Staff Visit to Prison, or Vending Machine Parties--Merchandise Not Included!)

"Watching the emo to end all emo probably didn't help," and Jim's voice is as close to complaint as you've ever heard it. "I mean, she fell in love and then he turned on her and she turned on him, and by the end, one of them is in Hell and the other one is all alone, and that is the suckiest ending I've ever seen. Ever."

You nod. "Probably the point," you say quietly. "Season two is really good for dwelling." _I should know,_ you think, remembering your own Season Two DVD tucked under your bed.

"Did you dwell a lot, Pam?" Jim asks, and his voice is just as quiet as yours. You sigh and drag your thumb across Jim's wrist. "I mean, I just realized that I never knew...you know, how it was for you. Back then. After. And that sucks of me, not to have asked."

"It sucked of me not to tell," you offer, and you're so _over_ all the accusations and what-if's and dreams. Because he's here, finally, and that's what matters.

"I watched Season Two on repeat for a bit," you finally say. "But by the time I finally turned the DVD off, the show was over. TV is just TV, Jim, and I have this _life_ now. You know?"

He does. You sit down on the stoop and watch the stars with him as inside, Dwight sleeps on.

---

"I want to see season one," Jim says, as the sun begins to filter into the kitchen. It's with an artist's eye that you can appreciate how blue his eyes are right now, or how wildly his hair curls up in the back. Your fingers twitch, and for a moment, you're mortified you're going to ruffle Jim's hair. And then you realize you don't have to be mortified anymore, so you reach up and ruffle it, and the way his smile crinkles up his whole face makes the coffee you're drinking go down that much warmer than usual.

"I'll let you borrow my DVDs," you offer, swinging your leg gently. "You can watch it the whole way through."

"I'd rather watch it with you," he says, looking at you steadily over the rim of his cup. "Actually, I'd rather watch it with you and Dwight." He makes a face. "That's...that's twelve hours of Dwight. That I actually want to spend. With Dwight."

You nod seriously. "The universe works in mysterious, sometimes appalling ways." The sound of Dwight's snoring drifts softly through the apartment. "I think," you sigh, picking at the peeling lacquer on your kitchen table, "that Buffy was a bad idea, though. Season two was draining enough, can you imagine another night going through this, except with death and resurrection as the overarching themes this time?"

Both you and Jim suppress a shudder.

"No," Jim says, a minute later. "I can see how that would _not_ be a fun sleepover." He tilts his head. "But I feel like I have to help somehow. Because the thing is, whether I like it or not, Dwight's my person. Other than you, I mean, but..." He fidgets, then grabs your hand, pinning you with his gaze. "Okay, look. So, with Andy? I put a calculator in his jello the first week I was at Stamford, and you know what he did?"

"Screamed a lot?" you guess. "Oh! Kicked something?"

Jim looks startled. "Well. Yeah. Yeah, actually, he did, all of the above. But Dwight, he just complains to Michael, right? Or uses similarly underhanded tactics. Why? Because we have a system. We understand each other." A shadow of a smile passes over Jim's lips. "Better than I ever thought, lately."

You give a shadow-smile, too. "Last year," you begin carefully, "when you and Karen had that fight over the apartment, after I helped you make up, I ended up crying in the stairwell. I...I don't know why, it was really dumb, but I just--I just couldn't deal with it for some reason and--"

Then Jim's cutting you off with a kiss again, just like earlier this week, except this time there's coffee sloshing across the table and the angle's all awkward. But still, there it is, the hot press of his mouth and the cradle of his big hand and the tightness strung through his jaw, like he wants to say something but this is the only way he can speak. You're okay with that, though, because sometimes this is the only way you can speak, too.

You pass your fingers over your lips as Jim cleans up the coffee spill; somewhere outside, a bird chirps.

"Dwight gave me his handkerchief." You blurt the words out. "He saw me crying--" Jim flinches and you barrel on, "--and he sat with me, and so you know, I feel like Dwight and I understand each other, too." You pick at your nail. "He's my person, too."

Jim smiles at you thoughtfully. "Our person. Look at that." And it's true. Dwight's your person and he's Jim's person, and you're both going to help him together. So yeah.

Look at that.


End file.
